The Virgin

P.P.P.S. And the hood.

* * *

At midnight she crossed the threshold and entered the convent. Silence reigned inside the heavy stone structure. She could hear her own breathing, her own heart beating. She breathed like a wounded runner who’d had to crawl to the finish line. But she wasn’t done crawling yet. Not until she was behind the inner door. Only behind that door would she be safe. Only behind that door could she rest.

Like every monastery, the convent employed a doorkeeper. Søren had told her about the original doorkeeper for the Jesuit order, Brother Alphonsus Rodríguez, who joined the Jesuits after the death of his wife and his three children. According to Søren, Brother Alphonsus treated every person who knocked on the door of the Jesuit school where he was stationed as if it were God Himself at the door. He worked as nothing more than a porter, a glorified doorman for forty years. In 1888, the world’s most devoted doorman became a saint.

Elle didn’t feel like God as she walked to the porter’s window. She didn’t feel like the Devil, either. She felt tired and scared, and she wanted more than anything to wake up in her own bed at Kingsley’s to find the past week had been nothing but a dream, nothing but a nightmare. She’d wake up and find Søren next to her in bed, and she’d roll over and stretch out on his chest, press her ear to his heart and listen to it beating. He would stir and wake and stroke her hair and her bruised back until she fell asleep again. When she woke up for the day he would be long gone with only the stains on the sheets, the welts on her body and the scent of winter on his pillow to prove he’d been there.

That was the Søren she knew and loved. She had no idea who this new Søren was, the one she’d met two nights ago. But she was relieved to know she’d put several hundred miles between them. And yet, several hundred miles wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would be enough until she was behind that door in front of her, the door with a simple brass plaque that read, No Men Beyond This Point. No men allowed. Not even priests.

She rang the bell and said a prayer to Saint Monica, praying her earthly daughters would take her in and shelter her.

A wooden panel at a window that reminded her of an old-fashioned bank teller’s was pushed aside and a woman in large glasses peered out at her.

“Welcome, child. Can we help you?” she asked, her tone kind and curious.

“My mother is here. Sister Mary John,” Elle said, her voice wavering against her will. “I need to talk to her.”

“Is it an emergency, or can it wait until morning? Now is the Great Silence and nearly everyone is sleeping.”

That question utterly flummoxed her. Emergency? Nothing was burning down at the moment...except her entire life. Did that count as an emergency?

Yes. Yes it did.

“Someone’s trying to find me, and this is probably the first place he’ll look.”

The sister’s eyes widened farther behind her glasses.

“Is this person dangerous?”

“Very,” Elle said.

“I’ll find her for you.”

“Thank you,” Elle said with profound gratitude.

She closed the wooden panel at the window but she reappeared in seconds at the door.

“Come inside here,” the sister said, ushering her in. “It’s against protocol, but if someone’s coming after you, you should wait here.”

Elle could have kissed the woman for her compassion. The elderly nun trundled off down a long dimly lit hallway leaving Elle by the door. Even after the sister disappeared, Elle could hear the sound of her rosary beads and orthopedic shoes echoing off the stone floors and polished wood walls.

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. When she was a teenager, a closed door between her and Søren had been a challenge, a hurdle and a game. If she sat outside his office door and did her homework, it was only a matter of time before the door opened. He would step out, take a seat by her on the bench and go over her homework with her. She never would have survived precalculus without him. When the work was done and she put her things away, Søren would retreat back into his office, shutting the door behind him, and she would sit there staring at the door and loving him with all her heart and dreaming of the life they would have together when he let her behind all his locked doors.

But never in any of those girlhood dreams had she ever dreamed of this moment. She never dreamed she’d be grateful for the door behind her and the sign on it barring men from entering. She never dreamed she’d be relieved Søren couldn’t get to her. She’d spent the past ten years of her life trying to get to him. Would she spend the rest of her life trying to get away?

“Ellie?”

Elle looked up and saw a woman in white coming toward her. White habit, white veil and a ghostly white face.

“Mom?”

“Of course it’s your mother.”

“Sorry, I didn’t...” She didn’t recognize her own mother. Gone was her mother’s long black hair so like her own. Gone were the khaki skirt she lived in and the navy cardigans and her ubiquitous white Keds. Elle hadn’t come to her mother’s entrance ceremony. She would have if her mother had asked, but by then Elle had moved out and they’d stopped speaking. Elle had forgotten that part, that whole not speaking to each other thing. Hopefully her mother had forgotten it, too.

“What on earth are you doing here?” her mother demanded.

“That nun let me in here behind the door.”